


Safe Word

by LivEinziger



Category: Law & Order: SVU
Genre: Choking, F/M, Fight Sex, Handcuffs, Makeup Sex, Rough Oral Sex, Rough Sex, Safewords, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-27
Updated: 2021-02-27
Packaged: 2021-03-19 02:22:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,804
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29743548
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LivEinziger/pseuds/LivEinziger
Summary: I still watch you when you're groovin'As if through water from the bottom of a poolYou're movin' without movin'And when you move, I'm movedYou are a call to motionThere, all of you a verb in perfect viewWhen you moveI could never define all that you are to meMovement - Hozier
Relationships: Olivia Benson/Elliot Stabler
Comments: 1
Kudos: 14





	Safe Word

**Author's Note:**

> I still watch you when you're groovin'  
> As if through water from the bottom of a pool  
> You're movin' without movin'  
> And when you move, I'm moved  
> You are a call to motion  
> There, all of you a verb in perfect view  
> When you move  
> I could never define all that you are to me
> 
> Movement - Hozier

He’s angry. You know this.

You know by the way he looks at you when he first lays eyes on you at the door. You know by the way he foregoes words altogether. You know by the way he grabs your arm.

You know. 

Elliot is angry, and you gave him reason to be. He knows you know. He knows you’ll be expecting something like this after you’ve pushed your favorite combination of his buttons. You knew you’d rile him up with your arguing, your teasing, your leaving. You both know you’ve led him to the point of no return. You can still hear your name rumbling in his voice even as he smothers you with silence now. 

_ Olivia! _

He hisses as he grips harder at your skin on his way to the bedroom, prints the mark of his teeth on your neck, pushes you violently against the bed. He smiles smugly when he hears the multiple bouncing of buttons on the hardwood floor after he rips your shirt open. He licks his lips when he scoops one of your breasts out of your bra as he yanks it down as far as it will go with his other hand, fingers hooked around the burgundy lace forcing the strips into your shoulders until you wince in discomfort.

You try to help him undress you, but he’s not having it. He pins both of your wrists down on the mattress and sits on your legs so you can’t move. He’s impossibly strong as he holds you down, saving any remaining softness for the paths his tongue is tracing along the column of your neck, the line of your collarbone, the fullness of your breasts, until roughness takes over again as he assaults your nipples, his sucking harsh and possessive.

“El—” you start to beg, and he instantly releases one of your hands in order to cover your mouth. 

He raises to glance at you with a warning: no words from him, no words from you.

He waits until you nod once to let go of you, but only because he needs his hands. He forces your jeans open, and you doubt the zipper will survive his haste. He pulls the blue fabric down along with the inner layer of red that covers you, bunching them just above your knees before he sits on them again, his hands squeezing your thighs on their way up, clutching at your hips, your ribs, leaving quickly-fading, white handprints around your breasts as he claims them once more.

But he won’t spend too much time on this exploration. You know this. 

“On your stomach,” he rasps through his clenched jaw, and you squint your eyes in defiance.

He squints his own in disbelief for a brief moment before he’s grabbing at you to turn you around himself, but you struggle, forcing him to use his whole body to restrain you, his face so close to yours now, the hot air he huffs at your face burning with frustration. With one hand, he pulls both of yours up toward the bed frame, and you know even before hearing the sounds that he’s reaching for his handcuffs behind his back. With dexterity, he clicks the cuffs around your wrists, freeing his hands to take off his shirt as you clank metal against metal with an exasperated moan to test your ability to free yourself. 

He smiles when you fail.

“They’re too tight,” you whine knowingly, and his eyebrow turns slightly upwards at your insubordination: he’ll make you pay.

You watch him take himself out of his pants while you struggle a little, hopelessly scraping your skin at your restraints. He pinches your chin to pull your face in his direction and harshly forces his hardness into your mouth.

“No talking,” he reiterates, driving all the way in and making you gasp as he fills your mouth and invades your throat. You know he doesn’t mean to say it, but your name escapes his mouth in a moan as he feels your throat closing around his tip as you struggle for air. “Fuck, Liv…”

After pulling just a little bit out, he pushes back in, burying himself to the hilt. “You do as I say,” he commands, in control again as he fists both hands around your hair, pulling at it to control your movements as he thrusts in and out repeatedly. He groans when he feels your tongue stroke his underside in a reflexive attempt to expel him as he keeps demandingly hitting the back of your throat. “Understand?” 

You nod, staring at his belly button and pulling as much air into your nose as you can for a few more minutes before he releases you, pulling himself out of your mouth and letting go of the strands of your hair.

“Good,” he says as he makes eye contact and releases one of your hands from the handcuffs, but never from his hold. “Now turn.”

You reluctantly comply, and when his other hand hits heavy on your ass in a silent instruction to raise your hips, you support yourself on your knees, giving him access to whatever he wants while he locks the cuffs again. 

Elliot sets his hands on the outside of your thighs, moving up their outline until his fingers curl around your hips. You’re not expecting it when you feel his tongue parting you and rubbing at your core a few times before moving all the way back, leaving a trail that ends at your lower back.

You know he doesn’t do it for your benefit. He does it because he enjoys your taste, because he wants a sip of your wetness before he proceeds. He does it because he can, because he owns you. 

His tip rubs at your entrance next, and you almost say  _ please _ before you remember you’re not allowed to speak. You do gasp loudly, though, when he slams into you; he gives you no time to adjust, and the added pain of the intrusion undeniably heightens your pleasure. You try to stay silent, but you whimper when his hands slide up your torso and land roughly around your breasts. 

He handles you like you belong to him, and you hate that you love how that feels.

You can’t keep your voice to yourself as he rams you punishingly, and the higher your pitch goes, the more furiously he drills into you. You just know he’ll shut you up soon — silence, he’d determined — and still, you rebel: you scream. The next second, his fingers are rudely wrapped around your neck, tightening increasingly, assuming full control of your airflow and effectively keeping your voice trapped inside. 

Your vision starts to blur, so you close your eyes to embrace the introspection as he closes you to any input from the outside world. His thrusts are more and more ruthless, and so is his grip as your ears start ringing in the rhythm of his strikes. You feel yourself hum as you relax your arms, unflex your tense muscles, giving in to the sensation that threatens to take you over, the sound of hips colliding becoming a heartbeat that pulses in your constricted throat.

When your release comes, as powerful and all-encompassing as ever, his fingers curl further, no longer allowing you any air, and all you feel is him, filling you, consuming you, replacing your oxygen, your blood, his body replacing yours, his arms penetrating your arms, his legs thrusting into your legs, his torso fucking into yours, and when he comes, he fills your mouth with his voice and your lungs with his seed. 

All you breathe is him. You drown in him. The world stands still for a moment, and you almost wish nothing ever changes ever again so you can remain in unison with Elliot forever.

But you need air, and his fingers snap open, then stroke the offended skin while your whole body spasms in a loud intake that immediately ventilates your aching bloodstream, ejecting Elliot’s presence as he releases your hands and rubs your sore wrists with his thumbs. He lies down on his side and rolls you to lie in front of him, arms wrapped around your waist as he lovingly kisses your neck before whispering two words into your ear. 

You let out a series of coughs that take in oxygen and return amusement as you laugh at the safe word you have not-so-jokingly defined but have never really used, aware as you both are of each other’s limits as if they were your own.

“It’s a bit too late for that, don’t you think?” you manage hoarsely, and his hand comes back to your neck to caress it gently, as if that will help you speak. “Besides,  _ I  _ was the one in a position to use it, not you.”

“No, you don’t get it,” he murmurs, nibbling at your earlobe. “I meant it.”

You’re still laughing. “Meant what?”

“What I said,” his voice is now soft, void of any discontentment: he’s just shoved it all into you, printed it on your skin with greedy fingertips.

“What you— The— You meant it?” you stutter incredulously, playing for time.

“I did,” he replies patiently, waiting you out.

You turn your head to the left, trying to get a glimpse of his face as he nuzzles at the back of your neck. “You can’t mean it, that’s why it’s the safe word.”

Elliot chuckles, and you start to get annoyed because you’re not sure he’s kidding. “We might need a new one, then, ‘cause I mean it.”

“The reason we chose it is because we would never mean it,” you remind him.

“I never said  _ never _ ,” he reminds  _ you _ .

“Elliot—”

“Turn around, look at me.”

You sigh, resigned, and turn to lie on your other side, your movements difficult because of the clothes you’re not completely wearing and not completely not wearing. “Stop mocking me,” you say, even though you’ve already seen it in his eyes: he’s not joking. 

“I’m not mocking you,” he smiles. 

“Why would you want that?” you challenge. “So we’d stop having this fight? So you could brand me as yours for everyone else to see?”

He shakes his head, taking your hand and slowly kissing your knuckles. “I love having this fight, and so do you.”

“Then why?” Your voice comes out as a faint whisper, and it has nothing to do with your bruised throat.

“You know why,” he says firmly. “I’ll say it again; pay attention and look into my eyes this time.”

You brace yourself, and you realize you don’t hate the idea that much. You don’t hate the idea at all. “Elliot—” you warn him again; last chance to say he’s kidding.

He doesn’t. He repeats the two words again instead.

“Marry me.”


End file.
